


slow dancing in a burning room

by geminimars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25833676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geminimars/pseuds/geminimars
Summary: Harry wipes the sweat on his trousers. “Severely unimpressed,” he squeaks, and he can feel the tips of his ears start to flare. “Terrible, even,” he manages. He wants to kick himself the moment those words come out of his mouth.Malfoy’s expression changes. His smile is so wide it makes the ends of his mouth crinkle, and he’s laughing. Honest to God laughing.or, harry and draco slow dancing at the end of the world
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	slow dancing in a burning room

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work in this fandom and it’s just a small little one, AND WAS WRITTEN IN LIKE AN HOUR WHILE WATCHING TWITCH 
> 
> it’s inspired by the scene towards the end with ellie and dina in tlou 2, with a hint of a zombie apocalypse in, yes, a muggle setting (it’s just an experiment fic!!!) 
> 
> i luv these two <3 enjoy

It had been weeks. Months, even. Maybe years if Harry truly wanted to remember.

He hasn’t felt something feel so light, so in his touch, in the longest time. 

He’s surrounded by dancing friends: dancing family, dancing acquaintances. People he’s never spoken to-- people he’s known that have suffered, they’re happy. They’re able to spare one single day to fuel themselves. Harry, just as everyone, can understand the relief of needing a day off, a day away from fighting, from surviving. 

And for some reason, his focus is on one thing and one thing only. 

The boy in the middle-- the center. The boy who’s holding a smile, a smile Harry hasn’t seen in years; the same boy he swears to hate, the same boy who sneers at him and makes him feel _too_ many feelings at once. For example: _now._ His eyes are boring right at him, watching him twirl with a friend of his, laughing and gasping when he _almost_ falls when he’s dipped. Harry’s never seen him dance. He would’ve imagined Malfoy hated these scenes folded in front of them; country music pouring out of the speakers, almost making Harry want to leave, but he _can’t._ Not when he has something to bicker with Malfoy for— because he’s always perfect, isn’t he? With his tight expressions, his strong features, his fingers that are wrapped around his friend’s hips securely, and his hair that’s normally combed and slicked back— _no_ imperfections, not one single hair sticking out— that is now falling in his eyes and he spares a moment to move it. Harry realizes he’s staring for _too_ long and thinking too much, because in a moment, Malfoy’s smile is directed at him without notice that Harry himself is looking. 

Then, it slowly fades. Becomes more strained. He tilts his head to the side, mouth opening, but is shut when he’s twirled around, eyes forcefully leaving Harry’s own. 

His heart hammers. He should leave, he should— 

“Boring party, isn’t it, mate?” Harry turns. Rob is standing to his left, one hand on his hip. He’s studying the floor of dancers, his eyes squinted. 

Harry’s mouth feels dry. “It’s okay,” he offers, not enjoying it as much as Ron. He’s been staring at Malfoy all night, but he’d never admit that out loud. 

“Okay?” He asks as he sits beside him on the abandoned stool. “This music is rubbish,” he points out— and this time, Harry agrees, letting out a quiet laugh. “Oi, who’s even _in_ charge of these things? They make it—“ 

Before he can keep complaining, Hermione emerges from the floor, dressed in a gown— she’s a lot more vulnerable looking with makeup, and Harry hasn’t seen her look this dashing in ages. She’s _always_ dashing, but a dress on Hermione is a rare sight. The gown suits her well; it’s a baby blue, lighting up her complexion, mixing with her eyes and the tint of pink spread along her cheeks. The dance put on tonight isn’t the fanciest, complemented with the music, but her dress isn’t either. It’s simply elegant— simple. That’s the word: simple, yet beautiful. 

“Quit complaining, Ronald,” she saves the day, playfully rolling her eyes at Ron. Her soft smile is then directed to Harry, who’s still staring at her with widened eyes. “Lost, Harry?” 

He blinks several times, catching a look from Ron. He shakes his head, spluttering, “No! No! No, I’m not lost,” he embarrassingly murmurs. “You look…” he’s at a loss for words. When did his best friend become so beautiful— so _grown_ up? He’s been watching her slay those demons beyond the gates for ages, yet has never seen her so calm, relaxed— _free._

“As do you,” she nods, the blush deepening. Then adds, “both,” when she realizes Ron is confusingly gazing between the two of them. “Ronald, care to dance?” She holds out her palm. 

“ _Dance?_ To… _this_?” 

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes in amusement, “come on, now,” she takes his hand lying at his side, limp. He’s forced to follow, groaning and looking back at Harry as an invitation to _help him._ But he doesn’t. He simply stays put, a rare smile that night dancing at his lips. 

He watches them disappear. Still sees Malfoy in the middle. 

Maybe he’s drunk. Maybe that’s why he’s dancing. 

Harry takes a swing of his own drink. 

After watching for quite a bit and dodging an uncomfortable conversation with a relative of Sirius’, the country music comes to a close and Malfoy is bouncing toward Harry, no friend in sight. When he’s about to speak, Malfoy is grabbing _his_ hand and leading him out there before he has the chance to even _deny_. But would he, even? He’d be confused— he’d yell at Malfoy for being ridiculous, but he doesn’t have the heart to yell. 

And his throat is still dry. And Malfoy’s hand is, even after the wars and the destruction around them, is soft, his fingers curling around the skin of his hand. When they stop in the middle, he’s directing Harry’s free hand around his waist, comfortably placing it on the gap between his hips and torso. It’s shaking, Harry realizes. Malfoy’s own free hand lands on the lower part of Harry’s back; and now, he raises their conjoined hands higher and _higher,_ and he’s moving them. 

Harry can’t speak. Can’t move. He’s being moved on Malfoy’s end, who’s just as silent as he is. There isn’t a smile on his face, but it’s relaxed; no sneers, no glares, nothing of the sort. He looks completely smitten, comfortable and confident as he leads them to the song— that’s slower, he realizes. 

He looks around to see if anyone’s looking, but they’re focused on _their_ dance. And couples, that Harry has known since the beginning of time it feels, are in the same position as him and Malfoy. Hands intertwined, the other placed on each other. He swallows thickly, and suddenly, their eyes meet. 

“Malfoy—“ 

He’s shushed. “No speaking,” he whispers. He whispers it so low only Harry can hear. As if they’re the only two people in this room, in the _world,_ even. That’s how he feels right now: it’s him and Malfoy. Him and _Draco._ No one else can matter— nothing outside of this building matters. “You will ruin this moment by using that mouth of yours.” 

He opens to speak, but closes it with a huff. 

Malfoy simply chuckles, doesn’t speak again. 

Harry allows himself to move. He hasn’t danced with another person in his _life._ He’s never slow danced, period— hasn’t bloody danced with anyone. Ever. And he’s losing his dancing virginity to _Malfoy._ God, that sounds horrible. 

“Stop thinking,” Malfoy says, dangerously close to his ear. “Let yourself relax,” he soothes him, feeling the anxiety piling up inside of his stomach. 

And it works. He nods, quiet, sighing softly when he finally falls into rhythm. He doesn’t dare to move his eyes from the one specific spot of Malfoy’s shirt— and it’s a _nice_ shirt, he starts thinking. It fits him well. He’s never seen Malfoy look _nice_ — nice without really trying. Malfoy knows he looks nice every single day; even bloodied and messy, dirty and just back from supply runs, he’s deep into Harry’s mind. He’s permanently stamped in the back of his mind— every step, every _rare_ smile, every glare. Every single thing: Harry knows. He studies, studies like Hermione does way before. Knows every single thing he can observe about him. And now, he’s getting a glimpse of something entirely different. Something new, fresh. 

Malfoy looked happy. Looked relaxed, his skin fresh of wounds and blood— his calm expression, the way he loves to dance, apparently. He’d never suspect that. 

When the song is over, he’s slightly pulling back. “Taken aback, Potter?” Asks Malfoy, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips— it’s a smirk. 

“You’re unpredictable,” are the first words out of his mouth. He has to clear his throat after because it comes out scratchy, and it makes Malfoy’s smirk turn soft. 

“Surely,” he nods. “What did you think, then?” 

“What did I _think_?” 

“Of my dancing skills, of course,” he’s now teasing Harry. Their hands are still connected, but lowered, almost as if they were intentionally holding hands. But they’re not, and Harry quickly takes it away. Malfoy’s smile fades, his head tilting the same way it did earlier. “Don’t tell me you’re unimpressed.” 

He sounds genuinely concerned. 

Harry wipes the sweat on his trousers. “Severely unimpressed,” he squeaks, and he can feel the tips of his ears start to flare. “Terrible, even,” he manages. He wants to kick himself the moment those words come out of his mouth. 

Malfoy’s expression changes. His smile is so wide it makes the ends of his mouth crinkle, and he’s laughing. Honest to God _laughing._

“Terrible, huh?” He questions. His tone is challenging, and as if they weren’t close enough, Malfoy takes a step forward, almost chest to chest with Harry. 

Harry wants to speak, but he’s stunned to silence. He works his throat, completely fucking _red—_ he doesn’t know the control this boy has over him suddenly, but it’s horrid. Completely embarrassing. 

“You—“ 

Malfoy ends his words with the shake of his head. Almost so close their noses could touch. 

“Looks like I’d have to impress you then, doesn’t it, Potter?” His name spills out of his mouth smoothly, not the way it always has: like venom. He doesn’t spit it out, it flows out, as if it’s natural to him suddenly. 

“You don’t…” he starts, then stops, because Malfoy is _that_ close. He nervously glances around— _nothing._ No one.

They’re in their little world, the two of them. Harry’s always wanted this, but he feels out of his own body now. He’s sweating, furiously blushing, and he can feel Malfoy’s heat because of how _close_ he is. 

Malfoy closes the gap between them. He kisses him; kisses Harry like he’s wanted to for all of his life. He’s leaning closer, his hand slipping around Harry’s hip, holding him, keeping him steady. If he didn’t, he’d be falling, that’s for sure. 

Harry doesn’t know how long it takes for him to kiss back. But when he does, Malfoy hums with appreciation, his fingers tightening around his hip, causing him to gasp. He quickly moves away, out of words, he can’t even— 

“Impressed?” Malfoy’s eyes bore into his. He keeps him there, sending electricity through his veins, the whisper of his voice sending a shiver down his spine. His hand doesn’t move. 

If he could speak, he _would._

Without getting a response, Malfoy’s mouth shapes into a smile. “Must be,” his eyes flicker to his lips in one small motion, and then his hand is removed from his hip. He feels cold, then— abandoned. “My mission is done, then.” 

And before he knows it, he’s left in the center alone. He doesn’t pay attention to where Malfoy heads, but his lips are burning, aching for more. 

He touches them. He traces his lower lip, astonished, completely shocked and petrified. 

He’s brought back to reality by a voice talking to him. 

“Hermione _would not_ let me leave,” Ron groans in his ear. He jumps, startled. He sends him a funny look. “You alright there, mate? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” says Ron, sounding almost _amused._

“Fine,” he manages. “Just fine.” 


End file.
